The Eternal Spark
by Arwen Imladviel
Summary: Rewrite of my first fic. Tinwen is a Maia, older than the world, and her love leads her to a difficult journey through the ages. She meets others, great and small, noble and terrible, and is burdened by an evil spell.
1. A Spark of Almaren

This is a rewrite of my first fanfic, 'Nár Tinwen'. This rewrite is dedicated to Hyel, with gratitude for her encouragement. It is very motivating to know that someone likes my stories and wants me to write more... so reviews, people, please! 

_Arwen Imladviel proudly presents: _

One woman.  
Ten faces.  
Ten names.  
Ten ages.  
Too many promises,  
Too many men,  
Too many graves.  


**The Eternal Spark    
_Quenta Oiotinwe_ **

Part One: A Spark of Almaren 

_"With the Valar came other spirits whose being also began before the World, of the same order as the Valar but of less degree. These are the Maiar, the people of the Valar, and their servants and helpers."_   
-J.R.R. Tolkien: 'Valaquenta' 

* * *

Among the Maiar are counted Arien and her sisters. They came to Eä like a rain of flames from the heavens, for they are spirits of fire. They became servants to Vána the Ever-Young. They walked with her, sang with her, all but one, the least of them all. She was Tinwen, 'spark-maiden'. She had little power and even less craft, save the art of games and tricks. She had the habit of hiding from her sisters and then surprising them by pretending to attack them in a weird shape. If she was sent on an errand she might dally on the way, wandering off to inspect a cave or build a dam, if such activity interested her at the moment. Often she was away for a long time, on pointless journeys of her own. At other times the Mighty had no peace from her impossible questions asked on awkward moments. 

Nonetheless, most loved Tinwen and sometimes Vána herself, feeling even younger than usual, would play with her. When their laughter rang in the heavy air of young Arda, those who heard it could well imagine having sensed the echo of the voices of the Children of Ilúvatar. 

In the beginning of days, when the Ainur dwelt upon the Isle of Almaren, Tinwen spent a lot of her time wandering around and watching the work of others. Her special interest turned towards Aulë and his servants, for their craft in those days was awe-inspiring and they worked with the fires of the earth that were dear to Tinwen. 

Thus Tinwen once met Turon, a craftsman of Aul's folk, who was intrigued by Tinwen's shape; she was unique among the Maiar, for she had fuzzy red hair and wore only a green tunic and red trousers, and walked barefoot. Also her shape was smaller than that of any other fire-spirit. Turon watched her, trying to figure out whether she was of Yavanna's people or perhaps one of the dream-spirits of Irmo; for in Tinwen were combined the living power of earth and the serene purity of the skies in a way that strangely touched Turon's heart, yet he could not even guess whether the childish shape that stared at him with serious eyes was male or female. 

'Who are you?' Turon asked.  
'Tinwen.' And the girl turned away from him and ran, ran perhaps just for a mischievous game, perhaps fearing something she had sensed in the man's eyes at the moment she had by naming herself confessed that she was of the people of Fire. 

Did she see then that there are many kinds of fire? Did she sense something she would later forget? 

For Turon, abandoning all his dignity, ran after Tinwen and caught her, grasped her fragile shape and lifted her on his arms. 

'Do not run from me, Tinwen, little spark. Be not afraid.'  
She ceased her wriggling and gazed into the eyes of her captor:  
'Never have I been afraid, never shall I be afraid. I shall be inextinguishable! But who are you? Are you a hunter for sparks? Are you in need of a fire? Are you in need of a pyre?'  
Tinwen touched Turon's cheek with her finger, and her fingertip was as hot as molten iron, yet did not burn the servant of Aulë.  
'I am Turon, Aul's aid at the forge, his help in shaping mountains. But you, you are a blazing red flame, not a spark! Cal-Urúnya, so I shall call you.'  
'Call what ever you wish, but remember I seldom come when called!' 

Yet a friendship was formed between them, and Turon found in the depths of mountains a stone that was black as night and yet carried the rainbow in its heart. He split it in two and honed the halves, crafting two identical flat jewels. They resembled two eyes, he thought, so he named them Morglini. He joined them together with a spell and gave one as a gift to Tinwen, keeping the other. Tinwen played with the stone and carried it always in her pocket. Her clothes had many pockets, in which she gathered pieces of plants, empty shells, anything that interested her. There might in a pocket to be found a blazing firebrand, or in another a living mouse. 

One time when Tinwen was watching fish beside a brook, Turon came to her and asked:  
'Would you not wish to be free?'  
'I am!'  
'No, you are a servant, at the beck and call of others.'  
'So is everyone.'  
'Not the Valar.'  
'Ilúvatar is their lord.'  
'Ilúvatar has made all Eä their dominion. What has he given you?'  
'A blazing heart! That is enough.'  
'Would you not come with me into the wilderness, to live independently, responsible only for yourself, only to yourself?'  
'I don't want to!'  
'Oh my little Cal-Urúnya, I love you. Yet I must go, cold winds are calling me. Come with me, you can always turn back later.'  
'No. Have you not heard of the great feast, the wedding feast of Nessa and Tulkas? I do not wish to miss it.'  
'Fare well, Cal-Urúnya. Remember me.'  
'How could I forget? You gave me the Morglin-stone!'  
Turon walked into the shades of the forest, and was never seen again in that region. Tinwen watched him go, guarding in her heart his flaming orange hair and his gallant bearing. When he was no longer in sight she glanced at the black stone, and it seemed to her that from its depths Turon's dark eyes looked back at her. 

The time came for celebration, a grand and merry feast. Tinwen forgot all sorrows and laughed with her sisters and smiled at lady Vána. She danced wildly and her whole being glowed like a flame, and her hair shone bright red. 

Later, when the feast was almost over, Tinwen suddenly remembered Turon and took the Morglin-stone from her pocket, and lo! The stone was ice-cold and covered with frost, and even Tinwen's hottest fire failed to melt it.  
'Oh, Turon my friend, how could I forget you so soon? Are you in danger?'  
Tinwen whispered to herself, and then made a decision. She forced her expression neutral and walked to Eönwë, who sat resting under a tree. Eönwë is the banner-bearer and herald of Manwë, and his might in arms is surpassed by none in Arda. 

'Lend me a knife'. Tinwen's voice was calm, so Eönwë assumed she needed the blade only for the cutting of fruit or some such task. The knife he handed to her was his best, named Élanga, star-iron. Nobody noticed that Tinwen left the place of celebration. 

When she had left Almaren over water Tinwen ran, and her instinct led her northwards, almost directly towards the light of Illuin. But in time she tired and lost hope. The forest around her turned darker step by step, until it became a frightening, rotten land populated by monsters. Tinwen could no longer proceed in a straight line, for in her path were many rank, poisonous fens. Finally she realized she had lost her way. When she came to a starlit clearing she sat down to rest, and tried to identify the patterns of the sky. 

Then she saw someone standing in the middle of the clearing. She grasped her knife and walked closer. Her eyes discerned only a tall black shadow. The shadow spoke:  
'Cal-Urúnya!'  
Tinwen startled, but she knew the voice at once. The same voice had given her the name, but it was now a mere joyless echo of its former self.  
'Turon?' She asked, wondering.  
'I have a new name now. Call me Thauron.' With these words the shadow revealed his face, the face of Turon, but changed, twisted. All love and caring had departed from the eyes. He was handsome, terrible and full of malevolent power; Gorthaur the Cruel, Sauron the Great, servant of Melkor. 

Terror filled Tinwen, but her courage did not falter, and she raised Élanga and saw it glowing red as blood: the iron had been heated in the flame of her anger. The blade was made by Aulë, strong and dangerous, and dangerous was Tinwen with anger in her eyes.  
'I see my friend Turon is dead, killed by Thauron, servant of the Enemy. My heart you have cut in half, shall we see what this blade does to your frozen heart?!'  
But Thauron departed, shouting:  
'You I shall not harm, for you have my stone. I wish you would follow me freely someday.' 

Tinwen was still angry, but when she was left alone she felt the weight of her exhaustion heavy, and she fell down in deathlike sleep. 

Meanwhile at Almaren Tinwen's disappearance had been noticed. Eönwë had seen her last. Arien was worried for her sister and said to Eönwë:  
'Without a knife she would not have gone, with one she may have gone far indeed. Tinwen does not know to fear anything.'  
'I'll find her.' Eönwë promised.  
'She may not wish to come,' Arien told everyone who participated in the search.  
'Call her with mocking names, and she will abandon hiding and answer in kind.'

The hunters found Tinwen's track and Eönwë was the first to follow it. The others were soon left behind the swift messenger. When the footprints disappeared in shadows beside a dark marshland Eönwë called out:  
'Tinwen, where are you?' The call rang out far, but he heard no answer. He remembered Arien's advice and shouted, faking anger:  
'You little salamander, sparklebug, you stole my best knife! You tangle-haired thistleburr, you dirty-toed little imp, Tinwen the Childish! Are you afraid of me?'  
Again and again he called, as loud as he could, and Tinwen woke to the noise and ran to find the caller. Soon she found Eönwë, but did not seem angered by the insults.  
'Here's your knife. It's a good knife, but I didn't need it after all. You are good at calling names.'  
'Arien told me to. I'm glad to see you are all right.' He lifted Tinwen in his arms and carried her southwards. The little spirit snuggled against his chest and whispered:  
'May I keep one of those names?'  
'Which one?'  
'Hiníel, "the Childish".'  
'Of course you may. And keep the knife, too, if you promise you won't run away ever again.'  
'I won't. Turon ran away, and look what happened.' Tinwen told of the meeting.

When Aulë heard of Turon's betrayal, he cursed him and said:  
'Let the most beautiful of his craft and the pride of his heart lose all its glory.'  
At that moment the Morglin-stone in Tinwen's pocket lost the rainbow and became black as the Void. 

And there came the time of war, and Melkor broke the lamps, Illuin and Ormal, and the Spring of Arda was over. The Valar went to dwell in Aman and Tinwen went with them. And it is said she built herself a little home inside a small hill, on its western slope. 

* * *

Linguistic notes:

It is supposed that the Ainur spoke a language of their own to each other, a language that perhaps did not always use words, but because almost no information can be found concerning this language, all the names I have invented are Quenyan until Sindarin elves and other peoples appear in the story. Most Ainur are known in the Silmarillion by their Quenyan names only. 

The name 'Tinwen' comes from 'tinwë = spark' and '-wen = maiden'  
'Turon' consists of 'tur = power, lordship' and '(r)on = lord', thus it might translate as 'Lord of Power'. 

The Quenyan title of this story, Quenta Oiotinweö, actually means 'Story of the Everlasting Spark'. 


	2. A Flame of Aman

**Part Two: A Flame of Aman**

The appointed moment had come for the Elder Children of Ilúvatar to awaken at the shores of Cuiviénen. The Valar held Council and decided to wage war on Melkor. There went Eönwë the herald bearing the sapphire-blue banner of Manwë. Among the army marched also Tinwen, Élanga in her belt, and in battle she slew one who had been her brother, a spirit of fire who served Melkor, a valarauka. The victory of the west was swift; they drove Melkor into Utumno and besieged the fortress. Finally the gates were broken and Tulkas wrestled Melkor and he was taken captive. But Sauron they did not find, and Tinwen was troubled. 

The victorious army returned to Aman, and Melkor was put under judgement by Mandos. Thus began the Summer of Arda. And it came to pass that the Eldar finally arrived to Aman. Such joy there was in the land those days, when the Vanyar, the Noldor and the Teleri beheld the light of Laurelin and Telperion. And none was more pleased at the sight of the Children of Ilúvatar than Tinwen Híniel, who clothed herself in the shape of an elf-child and played with the children of the newcomers. She taught them all her games and songs, and there were many of these. Thus time passed. 

Then one was born to shine like a golden star: Alatáriel, daughter of Finarfin. This little one became dearer than any other to Tinwen. Hand in hand they walked under the trees of Kementári, side by side they sat under the stars of Elentári, heart to heart they understood each other, soul to soul they belonged together. When they slept in Lórien they shared their dreams, and often they dreamed of a great light rising in the East, red and golden. 

When Alatáriel grew to be a maiden, Tinwen changed her raiment also. She turned her hair golden like her friend's, and they resembled each other so much that many elves confused one for the other. 

When Eönwë saw Tinwen in a maiden's shape, he fell in love and asked her to marry him. Tinwen replied she would like to see her friend Alatáriel married first. However, they were engaged and Eönwë gave Tinwen a diamond ring crafted by Aulë. 

The Summer of Arda was long, but eventually the fruits of talent had all ripened, the flowers of youth had bloomed, the birds of joy were preparing to fly away and the skies of hope were turning grey. Feänor had made the Silmarils. Melkor was unchained. 

Tinwen hated the Dark Lord who had led Turon away from her. The sad memories within her stirred when she saw her enemy walking free. More and more she yearned for the Spring to return. She preferred to be alone more often, though she tried to tell Alatáriel about her worries. Tinwen started to think that perhaps Melkor had indeed changed, and then she wondered whether Thauron could change too. Whether Tinwen herself could change him. She went to talk with Melkor. She did not know then, but it was Melkor's idea and not hers that she should seek Thauron. She learned the place where he ought to be found - in Middle-Earth, under Angamando (the fortress known in lore by the Sindarin name of Angband). 

Tinwen remembered full well she had promised not to run away. Therefore, she asked Eönwë to take her up the Taniquetil. There she was allowed an audience with Manwë and Varda.  
'High Lord, I have come to ask permission to depart from Aman.'  
'You may go,' said Manwë, 'and my blessing goes with you.'  
But the eyes of Varda held worry, and Eönwë tried to hide his shock. On the way back down he asked Tinwen many questions. Tinwen's only response was returning him his ring. 

Alatáriel was grieved, but could not alter her friend's decision. Tinwen tried to comfort her.  
'My beloved one, I know we will meet again. I shall not bid you farewell. Nor shall I give you any gift of departure. I shall give you a new name, and give you also me a name. You are Lauremiriel.'  
'My sister, you are El-Carnil.' And they laughed, and embraced. They parted, and they wept. 

* * *

Linguistic notes:

Lauremiriel = golden jewel  
El-Carnil = the star Carnil (a red star) 


	3. Heat Underground

**Part Three: Heat Underground**

Deep were the caverns delved by dark creatures under Angamando, deep and dangerous. They offered a place of hiding for the servants of Melkor biding for their time. There slept the valaraukar, spirits of black fire. There dwelt hordes of orcs and trolls, and other creatures, ones never seen above ground, nameless ones. It was a world of chaos and anarchy, countless fights, hunger and cannibalism, hunting and being hunted, a world of blood and fire. There were labyrinths of interweaving tunnels, connected to underground streams and lakes – some of these held water and some held molten stone. It was hot down there, and sometimes the earth itself shook and new crevices opened full of flames. 

In the midst of the tunnels there was a high, lightless chamber with a throne-like chair by one wall. On the chair sat an unmoving figure clad in black. There was nothing else in the room. 

Sauron was afraid. The presence of his master was distant. He was alone. He had tried to take command over the subjects of Melkor, but they were too interested in killing each other, or, in the case of the valaraukar, sleeping and gathering strength for the future. Sauron was not sure there would be a future. What if this was the end of it? What if the master never came back? What if... 

Suddenly light shone in the room. Sauron shrieked and covered his eyes from a blazing golden flame in the air. He heard laughter sounding like fresh wood burning. Laughter of joy without malice. Slowly he opened his eyes to the light. In front of him there was, not a fire, but a woman with golden hair. Sauron thought he had known her once, but he did not remember who she might have been. His dearest memories were hazy, covered in the black slime of Melkor's power. Then she noticed her smile when, wordlessly, she took from her pocket a black stone. 

'...Cal-Urúnya?'   
'Yes.'  
'I missed you.'  
'Really?'  
'I missed you, without realizing I did.'

Sauron stood up and walked to Tinwen. The maiden was dressed in a red robe, and her new shape was tall and noble. Sauron knelt down before her. 

'If you came to slay me, do it now.'  
'Come with me to the Mahanaxar, to hear your judgement.'  
'To captivity, you mean?' Sauron stood up.  
Tinwen told him about Melkor's captivity and his freedom. Sauron asked many questions about the repentance of Melkor, and Tinwen answered convincingly. Then Sauron told her he had suffered under the rule of Melkor and wished to be free, but he dared not go to Aman because he did not want to see Melkor ever again, changed or not. Tinwen thought she understood him; she, too, had felt uncomfortable near Melkor. 

'Because of him I lost you,' they told each other.  
'Set me free, Cal-Urúnya!'  
'How?'  
'To begin with, call me Turon.'  
And Turon he was now, his clothes became bright gold and blue, he was surrounded with pale golden light. He was tall and handsome. He smiled, and love shone in his eyes. 

'Turon, have you truly come back to me?'  
He fell to his knees again.  
'Would you take me back, would you still have me?'  
'Yes.'  
'And you will never leave me?'  
'No.'  
'Do you swear it by the Morglini-stones?'  
He took his stone and they joined their hands so that both pairs of hands held a stone between them, and they swore each other they would never abandon each other. As witnesses they called Vána and Melkor. 

Hardly any place on Arda is completely without beauty, for such is the power of Eru Ilúvatar. Thus, even under Angamando, there were hidden caverns full of colourful stalactites and stalagmites, gleaming crystal and clear waters. There were pillars of stone that reached up like trees in a forest, and veins of mineral that bloomed like meadows full of flowers. The echoes of streaming water and the sounds of drops falling from stalactite to stalagmite sounded in places like birdsong, rustling leaves and even singing voices. Many areas like these had been destroyed by the servants of Melkor when they had built the fortress, but this was left undiscovered because it was surrounded all over by hard granite with no openings big enough for anyone to go through. 

Except, of course, if the one that wanted to go through could make herself very small. And Tinwen wanted to go everywhere. In the shape of an adult, she was still her old self, playful and curious. Turon found it difficult to keep in pace with her. She would scare him by disappearing and jumping at him from the roof, looking like a valarauka. She would try to tame an abandoned baby troll. Most amazing was her ability to dance on lava and bathe in fire. And naturally she wanted to go and follow any interesting tunnel, stream, or, in this case, a small natural opening in a cavern wall. Turon was too tired to follow her through and was now waiting for Tinwen to return. Suddenly there was a shout for help from the other side. In no time Turon was there, following the echoes through darkness.  
'Help! Water! I can not get out!'  
Water turns out the fire of a fire-spirit. Turon suddenly realised he was used to having Tinwen's light around him. He hastened his steps and came to a pool of dark water. Something was splashing in the middle of it. He dived without hesitation. He saw only bubbles. He felt the bottom of the pool, finding only rocks. Desperate, he came to the surface. And was greeted by merry laughter.  
'Look at you! Wet all over!'  
Tinwen was standing on a rock, shining, child-shaped, and unquestionably dry. Turon got angry.  
'You must never do that again! I thought I had lost you.'  
'I am sorry. But look at what I have found for us!'  
And her light illuminated the entire cavern. Turon gasped in delight. Together, they started exploring. 

The most beautiful chamber Tinwen named Coimirer, the Living Jewels. It was a garden of crystal flowers, a forest of stony pillars, a cave almost as fair as those under the mountains of Aman, where Aulë delved. Walking here, she missed nothing at all. Except, sometimes, Alatáriel, to show her this place and walk there together. But maybe the heat would be oppressive to the fragile form of the elf-maiden; maybe she would miss the stars and the wind, and her own kin. Maybe this place was a secret paradise meant only for two souls. New desires filled Tinwen's heart, making the spark a flame – Cal-Urúnya. Such was her heart when she once stood in the middle of Coimirer, waiting for Turon. He had borrowed her Morglin-stone and promised a surprise. 

Turon came. 

He asked her to become his wife, and she accepted. And he gave Tinwen a gift: the Morglin-stone set in a golden chain.  
'I have put an enchantment on the gold,' he said, 'it will not melt even in the heat of your hottest fire, my love.'   
And he reached forth and locked the chain around Tinwen's neck.   
'Thus I take you mine.' 


	4. Ashes in Angamando

**Part Four: Ashes in Angamando**

'Thus I take you mine.'  
'It burns! Take it away!' Tinwen pulled the chain of the Morglin-Stone as far off her skin as it reached. This was not far enough.  
'How can anything burn you, my love? You are made of fire.'  
'It is so cold; it was never this cold before! Please take it off!'  
'I am sorry, my little one, but I can't. The lock is impossible to open. You see, I mean to keep you for ever.' With these words, Sauron captured her with one arm and with the other fastened a length of chain into the treacherous necklace. Then he chained her to the wall of the chamber of Coimirer. 'These chains are too strong for you to break, and no one will come here to break them for you. You yourself have admitted that none save Melkor, and someone who promised to keep the secret, know where you went from Aman. And my Lord will be pleased to find you safely kept here when he returns.'  
'If he returns', Tinwen managed to whisper.  
'And how does it help you if he does not? You shall see I can be cruel too. In fact, I think you shall see it very soon... my wife.' 

Fire burns. Sometimes it burns your fingers. Sometimes it burns down into ashes. No fire can burn for long in a sealed space. It requires air. Without air fire is not fire. But the heat endures, waiting. 

Melkor did return. He gathered his creatures and started fortifying Angamando, raising the Sangororimbë high over it. Sauron welcomed his Master and presented him two gifts. One was a knife of Aul's craft, which Melkor melted, using the iron to fasten Silmarils into his crown. The other was a prisoner. 

Tinwen heard the noises of change, but she could not fathom what they meant. Steps hurried to and fro. Tools crafted stone. Heavy things were carried from one place to another. Water splashed. Somewhere, fires rushed to flame. The earth itself was changing and moving, but none of the changes had reached the chamber of Coimirer, now dark and dusty, grave-like. 

Until the day Tinwen heard the door being opened and its seals breaking. Someone walked in, but brought no light. The gust of air lighted Tinwen's flames, and she saw a black, hooded shape right in front of her.  
'Who are you?' She asked.  
'You may call me your lord.' The visitor lowered his hood. Tinwen beheld the Jewels of Feänor, aglow with the living fire of Valinor. Then she saw the face under the iron-crown. 

Arien, she who steers the sun, was on one of her first journeys across the heavens. Suddenly she started crying tears of fire. She did not understand the reason for this, until she felt somehow that her smallest sister suffered, was being hurt beyond healing. 

A fire of gold had burned down into ashes and the cold ashes had been walked on by filthy feet. Tinwen did not cry. Her entire body was in pain; every limb was like crippled, without strength. She felt old and despaired. Her face was like burned flesh, her hair hanged down in dirty ash-white tangles. She was not even sure if she was alive or dead. 

The Maiar are untouched by time. Sometimes, though, they may be aged by worry, pain and sorrow. So was Tinwen, no longer fair, no longer glorious, no longer shining. She walked around her prison as far as the chains would let her. She whispered to the stones in the walls, recalling the light and beauty of Aman beyond the ocean. One day she found a stone that whispered back; a jewel-spirit. Slowly she tore it out of the wall with her bare hands. Then she polished it with the rags of her clothes. Quetondo she called it, the Speaking Stone. It taught her the language of rock, which is slow and few-worded, the tongue of pebbles, which consists of small rolling words, and the speech of monoliths, which is heavy and sharp. And Quetondo told wonderful tales of mountains dancing, continents melting, valleys opening and hills rising.  
'I love the fires of the earth', said Tinwen, 'teach me the word to call them to me.'  
Quetondo told her the word. She spoke it. The ground tore itself in two, smoke erupted from the crevice, and molten stone came after it. Tinwen was delighted to have light once again. Now she saw Quetondo, a tiny shadow dancing inside its crystal sphere. The fire could not melt Tinwen's chains, but it eased the pain caused by the icy Morglin-Stone. 

Melkor felt his throne shaking. He sent his servants to see what was the reason. They reported that the prison-chamber of Tinwen was opened and lava rushed out of it. He told Sauron:  
'You have been foolish to capture her so far underground. Find a new place to keep her.' 

Tinwen was taken out by valaraukar, who flew her up to a sharp mountaintop of the Sangororimbë. There Sauron chained her. It was a cloudy night, a night of darkness. Sauron was in the shape of a vampire. He touched her face with a clawed hand.  
'You should see yourself now, little one. You are nothing any longer!'  
'I'm still alive.'  
'Soon you'll wish you weren't.' And Sauron drank her blood. 

The next morning Anar rose in her glory over the mountaintops. Arien beheld a wretched little figure tied with chains into the mountainside. The figure lifted a hollow-eyed face. There was something familiar in its features…  
'Sister?'  
'Sister! Help me!' The voice was dry and breathless.  
'I cannot. I cannot come down. Oh, Tinwen!'  
And Arien the sun-maiden passed over the skies to the West with a message of pleading on her lips. Some on the earth noted that the day felt unusually short, as if the Sun herself had been hurrying. 

The next day she came again, with the news that the Eagles of Sorontar would be on their way as soon as she woke them up. But Tinwen was no longer on the mountain. Melkor's guards had heard her converse with Arien and she had been brought back below ground. This time her imprisonment was even more torturing: Tinwen was frozen inside a small glacier. She could not move, but her Maiarin spirit endured and she remained conscious of the suffocating coldness all around her. 

Years passed, years of fear and war in Beleriand, years of terror and dark despair in Angband. 

But one hour there was that brought hope and eased the suffering of the captives of Angamando. For from the darkest and deepest hall where Morgoth had his throne there drifted a song of beautiful dreams. All that heard it fell asleep, and Tinwen dreamed of Arda under Anar, of flowers rising and children dancing. Her heart found a familiarity in the enchantment; 'Melian's daughter...' she thought. Another dream there was, too; a vision of her own lost sword being broken and then breaking another sword, and of a Younger Child of Ilúvatar taking a Silmaril in his hand. Too soon the dreams drifted away and Tinwen was once again tortured and despaired; even more so now that she had been reminded of lost happiness. Yet in the depths of her heart she rejoiced at Melkor's loss and what shadow of hope she had she put into the Silmaril. Melkor was not invincible... 

* * *

Linguistic notes:

'Sorontar' is Tolkien's translation for the name of the King of the Eagles, Thorondor.  
'Sangororimb' is my translation for the name Thangorodrim. 


	5. A Light Rekindled

**Part Five: A Light Rekindled**

'Go.' The one word was enough for Eönwë, who knew what Manwë had been waiting for. He left Taniquetil and hurried towards the city of Tirion. Halfway up the hillside he suddenly recalled when was the last time he had run. The memory hit him like a storm. He had not run alone then, oh no... Memories buried under the tides of time were floating up one after another. Healed wounds were bleeding once again. Eönwë had chosen to serve his master and stay beside him, but in his heart he often wished he had gone off in search for Tinwen. Tinwen, who had abandoned him. The herald realized he was standing in the middle of the road. He rushed to fulfil his important errand. 

The city was empty, too empty. There should be one there. Where was the Messenger? At last Eönwë saw him, already turning away. How stupid of him, the lord of all heralds, to be late on a day like this...  
'Hail Eärendil, of mariners most renowned, the looked for that cometh at unawares, the longed for that cometh beyond hope!' 

Not so very long after this, in the scale of Ages, Eönwë was leaning on his sword and watching the morning sun shine over a battlefield. The battlefield of the last great battle. The scene of his victory, and Eärendil's. He lifted up his sword to greet the man who was steering Vingilot back up towards the higher skies. There was blood on the blade, Morgoth's blood. From where he was standing, right opposite the broken gates of Angamando, he could see the place where the Dark Lord was kept chained and guarded. He could see the dead being buried and the wounded being treated. He could see the prisoners of darkness brought to freedom. They were weak and broken; they shielded their faces, for their eyes were unaccustomed to light. On the field there shone in addition to Anar the Silmarils, all three of them. One was up the skies and the two others were kept under guard close to Eönwë. On an impulse he picked the jewels into his hands and lifted them high over his head. 

Then he saw a vision that burned his heart. From the gates had emerged a straight-backed prisoner, thin like a skeleton, with aged features, lifeless skin, and a bitter expression. The woman walked with a steady gait and bore her rags as if they were the glorious robes of a queen. She turned her eyes skywards and the rays of Anar were reflected in them. Eönwë had recognized Tinwen instantly, and abandoning all dignity he ran to her. 

When they met, they said not a word. Instead, Eönwë reached to take hold of Tinwen's hands – but in his hands were still the Silmarils. When Tinwen touched them, her heart was rekindled. She was once again tall, young and beautiful. Her garment was white like the flame of the Silmarils, her hair was like a cloud, as black as the memory of sorrows past and gone.  
Eönwë kissed her. 

An eternity after this, in the scale of love, as they stood by themselves some way from the blood-stained battleground, Tinwen asked:  
'Am I free now? Where is Sauron?'  
'I do not...' Eönwë began, but he was interrupted.  
'Sauron is here.'  
As he was. He had assumed a handsome and kind shape once again. He knelt down at Eönw's feet, begging for mercy.  
'I have not the power to pardon those of my own rank. Therefore, I command you to return to Aman to be judged by Manwë.  
Sauron walked away with his head bowed. 

'You let him go unchained like that? You speak of pardon?' Tinwen was furious.  
'Do you still not understand what he did to me?' Tinwen showed Eönwë the Morglin-Stone.  
'As long as Sauron is free, I am enslaved. See, here is a chain you could not break. As long as this binds me, I cannot come to Aman with you. Sauron binds me to Middle-Earth.'  
'Then will you marry me here? As for Alatáriel, she has been married for centuries'. Eönwë managed a smile.  
'No. I must be liberated from this first. Prove your love to me by destroying Sauron's power!'  
'Why bind us with more oaths? I fear this is the last chance we are given. I can only do what is in my power and what my Lord allows.'  
'I was tortured while you enjoyed yourself in Aman.'  
'Enjoyed myself? Hardly, when my heart had been torn away.'  
'Then why did you not come? I was bound and chained, frozen and violated, and you did not come to my aid!'  
'It was you who left me! I hoped you would return. But you had forsaken me; you loved another more than me! You think your shameful secrets are unknown to me. But Morgoth flaunted them all at me when he saw I would not be merciful on him anyway.'  
'And you believed him?' Tinwen was trembling.  
'Of course not! Ten warriors were needed to keep me from cutting him all to pieces, Manwë be merciful! But now I read the truth in your eyes. You believed him. You left me. You wanted Sauron, you desired him! You smiled at him when he wound that slave-chain around your neck!' 

Tears rolled down Tinwen's cheeks, tears of all the ages of her imprisonment. When captured, she had kept her pride. Now nothing kept her from crying out her pain and loneliness. Her legs failed her, and she fell sitting on the ground. Then she felt Eönw's strong arms around her.  
'I love you, Híniel! Oh, how I missed you! And I want you, no matter what.' He kissed Tinwen.  
'Forgive me. I wish we were back in Aman under the two trees, and I could throw this black stone away and the Summer would never end. For I love you, I do!'  
'Me and no other, this time?' Eönw's voice was serious but his eyes smiled teasingly.  
'Many others, actually.' Tinwen laughed through her tears.  
'Tell me right now!' He pretended to threaten her.  
'Well, my lady Vána for one, and all the Valar, and Ilúvatar the father of all.'  
'But no others, I'm sure?'  
'Of course! Arien and all my other sisters!' Tinwen pointed at the Sun.  
'No more others?'  
'Two more. Here is one.' And she took a crystal sphere from her pocket.  
'May I introduce Quetondo.'  
'So this is your dearest one, Tinwen', said the jewel-spirit, 'shall I tell him all you said about him?' 'Not right now, please!'  
'Aha! And the last one?' Eönwë tried not to laugh at the tiny spirit before Tinwen had put it back down her pocket.   
'Do not be stupid. Alatáriel, who else! Do you know where she is?'  
'She is living as a refugee at the mouth of a river named Sirion. She and husband, who is of the Moriquendi, have been through much joy and sorrow, blessing and pain.'  
'Then I must meet her at once! I will return to you as soon as I can.'  
And she kissed him and left on her journey. 


	6. A Fire in the Wilderness

**Part Six: A Fire in the Wilderness**

The watchmen took their duty very seriously. They were all that stood between the Eldar of the Mouth of Sirion and the rest of Beleriand, and the rest of Beleriand was a dangerous place. Especially these days, when thunder stormed from the north and the earth shook and the river Sirion ran almost dry and sea was swallowing land hungrily. So the two Sindarin elves stopped the black-haired stranger woman whom they saw running under the trees. They were not sure even whether she was elf or human, wet she was certainly and had tangles in her hair. Her clothes might have been white once, now they were stained and torn, and she had no shoes. The watchmen wondered where she came from and why she was alone, and in weather like this, too. They asked her name and business. 

'Who I am is no business of yours. I have come to meet the Lady Alatáriel.' She spoke the Quenyan language in a way that suggested it was very familiar to her.  
'You mean Lady Galadriel?' They had never heard her original name.  
'I might, and then again I might not. Tell the Lady Galadriel that El-Carnil has come to meet Lauremiriel.'  
'El-Carnil? Some say Carnil is a star that means bad news when it shines bright.' The younger of the watchmen looked worried.  
'I am not shining very brightly at the moment, am I, gentlemen, nor is my namesake up in the heavens behind all those dark clouds that are dropping their water on me all the time I have to explain things to you thickheads!' 

The watchmen had never heard the noble tongue spoken in such a tone and the one who had shown an interest in reading fate from stars hurried away to find Lady Galadriel. His companion led El-Carnil under a thick-leaved tree that kept the rain away. He felt this woman probably deserved more respect than what she had received so far, so he offered her his cloak to sit on and welcomed her to their country with formal words.  
'You mean, if anyone is ever letting me cross the borders', was the sharp response he got. For a while they sat in silence. The watchman tried to start a conversation.  
'Any news of what's going on in the north?'   
The woman stared up into the rain.  
'Great messages are brought by great messengers. Have you not seen Eärendil? He was worthy of his message, a star brighter than others. El-Carnil is not bright, so fear not.' 

Galadriel did not send a message; she came herself. Her clothes were wet and her hair was dripping water. The two women embraced, and started walking hand in hand towards Galadriel's house. The younger watchman stared after them, standing in the rain.  
'What's the matter with you?' his companion inquired.  
'You know, she's actually sort of beautiful.'  
'Ha! Want to know what she said about you when you'd gone?'  
'Tell me!'  
'Nothing at all.' 

'So what will you do?' Galadriel asked after having heard Tinwen's whole story.  
'I can do nothing. Sauron has bound me bodily to Middle-Earth and his shadow stains my heart. I cannot marry before I am set free.'  
'Yet your hands touched the Silmarils and were not burnt.'  
'But my chain did not break.' 

Soon Eönwë arrived with his army, but without the Silmarils. The jewels had found their fate. 

Many left the changed face of Middle-Earth that time, both elves and men. And finally Eönwë left also, on the command of Manwë. When the last glimpse of his sails disappeared beyond the horizon, Tinwen turned her back to the sea and ran away. She ran for days without stopping, she ran all the way to the other side of Ered Lindon until she found a wilderness where no one dwelt. Then she fell on the ground and cried. In time she gathered fallen branches and made a fire, hunted meat and picked berries to eat. She built no dwelling but moved her camp about once a month. Her shape was small and nimble, almost like her child-shape, but without colour and joy, a shy, hiding, wordless shape. 

One summer day she met a birch with a face. The creature walked with feet like roots. When it saw Tinwen it halted and spoke:  
'Why are you here? What path brought you?'  
'Tië útiervéra, mallë úestelvéra, irmë erëssëa, úráve ú-ohtacarë.' This means:  
'The path of the pathless, the road of the hopeless, the longing for loneliness, the peace of silence.'  
'You speak like one of us. I think you are welcome, but we must consider that a while. I am Fimbrethil, how do you wish to be called?'  
'I have many names, would you like to choose from them?'  
'Oh, but you must not tell your true names, we have barely just met, don't be hasty.'  
'Then let us say I am Maialaurë.' 

Under this name Tinwen learned to know the people of the Ents, the shepherds of trees. Most intimately she made friends with their children, the Entlings. Time passed unnoticed, for the life of the Ents was slow-paced. All of them did not accept a fire-spirit as a friend, before they saw her after one thunderstorm quench a forest fire. She walked into the blaze and breathed deeply – and the flames were all drawn away from the burning wood and into her small body. The fire was gone, although for the rest of the day Maialaur's skin was very warm and there was a red glint in her brown eyes. But generally the company of the Ents had slowly changed her more like them in shape, her skin resembled pale bark and a green sheen could be perceived in her dark hair. In her brown leathers and furs resembling beard lichen she could be mistaken for an Entling among others, and even her speech was full of their words. 

This was Maialaurë like, when she one day was hiding from her playmate Bregalad among the branches of a great oak. All of a sudden she heard the ringing of hunting-horns, and soon a troop of elves rode underneath the branches, obviously returning home from a hunt, for the saddles were laden with prey and between horses a large stag was carried. They laughed gaily and sang. And Tinwen gazed at the elven man leading the group, handsome and noble looking. While their song still echoed in her ears Tinwen sought Bregalad and told him:  
'Tell my farewell to everyone. Those hunters, they have snared my heart! I am called by towns and towers, silks and satins, parks and fountains! I must go before the moment fades, before the trail vanishes. Be you blessed a thousand times, young Bregalad, grow tall and handsome and remember me!'  
With serious eyes Bregalad Quickbeam watched her hasten away, as confused as he would have been if he had found cherries growing in his mother's apple tree. He had not guessed Maialaurë was so very different. Of course she ate meat and could bend her body in strange positions, and had hands that could make a fire out of nothing and put it out with one gesture, but all in all she had been to him just a slightly different Entmaiden. With slow steps he returned to his people. 


	7. Sunbeam and Moonray

**Part Seven: Sunbeam and Moonray**

Keeping herself hidden Tinwen followed the hunters into a grand, beautiful elven city. After having wandered long in the streets she saw the young elf-lord who had led the company resting under a fruit-bearing tree in a fine garden. Tinwen took a new shape, resembling an elven maiden, clothing herself in a violet garment, and commanding her night-black hair to bend itself into a meticulous arrangement. Her skin was pale and her eyes blue, and on her feet she wore shoes decorated with mother-of-pearl. She began a song.  
The elf-man woke and stared at her in amazement. At that moment his fate was engraved upon his heart. 

'Who are you, fair lady?'  
'My name is Tinwen Híniel Cal-Urúnya Maialaurë El-Carnil.'  
'That is too long a name for my humble tongue. Can I call you Elai? I am Ereinion.'  
'The moment I saw you, I loved you, Ereinion. You may call me whatever you like.'  
'So did I love you the moment I saw you, Elai.' 

They conversed all day and all night under that tree. Elai told Ereinion everything that had befallen her since the beginning of Arda. Ereinion told little of himself. Instead, he recalled the story of Thingol and Melian.  
'Melian was a Maia,' he concluded, 'as are you, but Thingol was king in the land of the Moriquendi, although he himself was counted among the Calaquendi. I, on the other hand, have been born in this land of exile, and thus do not belong among the Calaquendi, although I rule the Noldor as their king.  
'You are a king. I almost knew it.' Elai did not seem surprised.  
'Ereinion Gil-Galad, High King of the Noldor, at your service.' He knelt.  
'Will you marry me, my fair Elai?'  
'I have told you the reason I cannot.'  
'Then I swear I will destroy Sauron when the time comes, at any cost.' He put his right hand on his heart and the left on his sword-hilt.  
'Oh, Ereinion, I hope the time does not come too soon. I fear I shall lose you!'  
'Either you lose me, or you get me.'

The time did not come soon. Lady Elai was presented to the court. She remained close to Gil-Galad wherever he went. They spent centuries together, waiting for a dawn of blessed future. 

Instead there rose a dawn of hatred red as blood. Numenor fell, and the Faithful came to Middle-Earth, and Elendil came to Gil-Galad.  
All too soon, Elai felt, it was time for the Last Alliance. Elai travelled with Ereinion to Imladris, where all gathered that opposed Sauron. There, in the last evening, many songs were sung in the halls of Elrond. And a song, seldom remembered, was then sung of the destruction of Angband, in which Eönwë was praised. Ereinion saw tears brimming in Elai's eyes, and led her out into silent balcony under the stars. 

'You loved him.' It was a statement, not an accusation.  
'Yes, but he loved me not. Now I cry for a love that is dead.  
'I will love you till death and beyond! Our love shall not die! Do you trust me in this, my fair Elai?  
'Oh, Ereinion!' Her kiss was burning, yet sweet.  
'You should not go. I fear for your life.'  
'This is my fate, beloved one. I am a warrior. And I have sworn an oath to you. For your sake I must face death, for your freedom I must battle Sauron.'  
'But what shall I do with all the freedom in the world, if I cannot share it with you, my love?'  
'Ah, Elai!' Ereinion fell to his knees and took her hand.  
'I see I have to explain myself. In your captivation I also am captured. For I desire you! You and no other I want as my wife, as my queen. I go forth for your sake, but also for my own sake. I cannot wait forever!'   
Ereinion pointed at the moon:  
'Look, there goes Tilion the hunter, ever in pursuit of your sister Arien. Every time he reaches her she burns him with her fire. Poor Tilion! Would you have me share his fate?'  
'Not if I could help it'. Elai took his hands and helped him to stand up.  
'But as I am now, I am not a suitable queen. I would not be a suitable wife even for a beggar, for inside me there is the poison of Morgoth, round my neck is the chain of Sauron and my soul is bound by my own words.'  
'Yet you live and stand beside me, and hope shines in your eyes. If I had you, would my fate be any harder than yours?'  
'It would. The hope in me was kindled by the Silmarils; my life is older than heaven and earth. You would die of the poison that is in me.'  
'And yet, yet I do desire you! If only I could have you tonight! What is death to one who has joined with eternal fire and emptied a cup brimmed with light!' Ereinion embraced his betrothed, drawing her to himself, so that Elai could feel his breath on her lips.  
'The cup, I fear, is brimmed with darkness, and the fire breathes evil fumes. No, Sauron must die, and then we may be joined together! Go to Mordor, my love, as you must… but I shall not say you farewell, I shall ride beside you!'  
'But…'  
'In the light of Illuin under the stars I was the first to oppose Sauron! A red-hot knife in my hand I fought at the gates of Utumno and slew a balrog, my own brother! Fearless and alone I entered the caves under Angband, with my head held up I walked out when my imprisonment was over! Long I lived as a hunter and let no beast harm me. Eönwë himself ages ago in Aman taught me the use of weapons.'  
In vain Gil-Galad tried to change Tinwen's mind and so the maiden was equipped for the battle as one of the knights. For her weapons she chose a bow and a light sword. 

* * *

The army stopped to rest after crossing the mountains. The herald carefully set Gil-Galad's blue-and-silver star-spangled banner standing in the ground before he led his horse to drink. Then he sat down, watching his comrades and eating lembas. He was proud of his duty; it was an honour to serve as the herald for the High King. Now it seemed, however, that one of the young knights wished even higher an honour; he walked beside Gil-Galad while the King inspected his troops, and demanded in a loud voice for something unheard-of. The herald, Elrond, listened with great interest. 

'For the last time, you may not ride beside me, Pengil! That position belongs to Elendil, and beside him rides Isildur, and beside Isildur, Anarion.'  
'Elendil rides on your right-hand side?'  
'Yes, of course.'  
'Who rides on your left?'  
'No-one.'  
'I shall ride on your left, on the side of your heart and your shield-bearing arm.'  
'I cannot allow that.'  
'I cannot go before you, and after you I wish not to go.'  
'This is war! Do you think you are in a parade?'  
'No. I only want to protect you. Have me as your squire if nothing else!'  
'Very well- if you can perform the duties of that position.'  
'I am not afraid of work!'  
'Polish this, then!' And the king took his shield and flung it carelessly into the arms of his new squire.   
Pengil staggered under the weight but kept his balance. 

Elrond walked to the young knight who sat absorbed in his task.  
'Would you like some wine?'  
'No, thank you. I already ate.'  
'Are you a relative of his majesty's?' Nothing else could explain the way he had talked to the king.  
'No.' The squire – Pengil, was that his name, starbow? – Only lifted his gaze now. His eyes were dark blue.  
'You must wonder about my behaviour. But you see - I fear for him so! He wishes to do battle in the front lines. He is going to challenge Sauron!' Pengil continued polishing the shield when he talked, although the stars already shone mirror-bright.  
'And he is angry with me. He would have wished me to stay in Imladris.'  
'Why?'  
'I suppose he was worried for me. It has been long since I last went to battle.'  
'You appear young.'  
'I am not. And he should not worry for me so.' 

Pengil did ride to the field of Dagorlad beside his king, an archer among swords and spears. He aimed his arrows wherever he saw enemies who threatened the lives of the leaders. At one point he drew out a slim blade and slew an orc that had attempted to strike with its axe a man who had fallen from his horse. The man was Isildur son of Elendil, and he took the hand of his rescuer and promised a grand reward. For an answer Pengil only helped him behind himself on his horse – and then jumped off himself, for the starry banner was besieged by enemies. Shamelessly Pengil slew many enemies from behind with an orc-axe he had captured, forced his way trough the circle and stood beside Elrond until Isildur led several horsemen to their aid, and a dead man's horse for brave Pengil.  
'What are you made of?' The king of men asked.  
'Fire!' Shouted Pengil, climbed into the saddle and headed off in search of more enemies. 

Many fell that day, but Pengil survived unscathed. In later battles he displayed similar courage, and the kings of both men and elves knighted him during the siege of Barad-Dûr. 

The siege lasted seven years. In the third year Pengil was wounded. A faceless black-cloaked rider, a chieftain of the enemy, shot a poisoned arrow through his palm. 

Gil-Galad carried Pengil into the tent of the healers on his arms, abandoning all else. The kings of men turned to watch, and the young herald handed over the banner to a comrade and ran after his lord.  
'My lord king! Can I be of any help?'  
But the king did not answer, and Elrond saw a strange sight:  
Pengil lay on the stretcher as if lifeless – how could a wound on the hand be so serious – and his wounded hand, bandaged with a strip of cloth, Gil-Galad held in his own hands, kneeling beside the bed, and from his eyes tears fell upon the bloodstained bandages. 

'My lord king? What is the matter with him?'  
'Poison. It was an evil arrow. Pengil is fighting for life at the gates of darkness.'  
'If there is nothing we can do, shall we weep like women? Majesty, the attack is proceeding. What would Pengil say if he saw you like that? I have seen him fight, he never gives up, I have seen him crawl on his knees to hack off an enemy's foot, I am sure he will beat that poison also. He says himself he is made of fire!' Elrond spoke daringly, for he could not bear to see the grand king so afraid.   
'Made of fire,' Gil-Galad whispered.   
'That is true! Elrond, I will tell you a secret. Pengil is not like us. He is an Ainu. Of the people of eternity. Elrond, bring here the brazier and pour oil into the flames.'  
He obeyed. 

Gil-Galad took the brazier. Then he carefully lifted Pengil's hand and pushed it into the fire. Elrond suppressed a scream of terror, and hardly believed his eyes: the gold plating on the king's armguard shone red-hot, his fingers were burnt in the short moment it took him to set Pengil's hand in the middle of the fire. But the bandages of the wounded hand flared and fell of as ashes, and the hand was white in the fire and shone, shone like the sun, and the black wound in the middle of the palm blazed and seemed to suck the fire from the brazier. Then the fire burned out and in the veins of Pengil's bare arm a strange glow seemed to flow.   
His eyes opened and he smiled.  
'Are you all right?'  
'Ereinion. It was terrible – the arrow, I mean. Sauron's disgusting filth. Now it is gone, you have cleansed me.' He opened his fist and not a trace of the wound could be seen.  
'Elrond helped me.'  
'Thank you, Elrond of Imladris.' Again Pengil smiled, oddly gently, and suddenly Elrond knew her, knew that smile.  
'But you – you are Elai!'  
'I am Tinwen Híniel Cal-Urúnya Maialaurë El-Carnil Elai, sister to Arien, but I am also Pengil, knight in the army of the Last Alliance.'  
'I understand. Your secret is safe with me.' 

Pengil tied her armguard on again and grabbed her bow.  
'Why are we dawdling here, Ereinion? The battle does not cease for us.'  
And the king laughed in joy. And the war went on. 

* * *

Linguistic note:

The name 'Elai' comes from proto-quenyan 'Ele!' = 'Behold!', which was thought to be the first word the Eldar spoke when waking at Cuiviénen, thus giving a name to the stars ('êl' and 'elen'). 


	8. A Hidden Lamp

_'Gil-Galad was an elven king  
Of him the harpers sadly sing:  
the last whose realm was fair and free  
between the Mountains and the Sea. _

His sword was long, his lance was keen,  
his shining helm afar was seen;  
the countless stars of heaven's field  
were mirrored in his silver shield. 

But long ago he rode away,  
and where he dwelleth none can say;  
for into darkness fell his star  
in Mordor where the shadows are. 

- J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings 

_His sword lies fallen in the sand  
of that black sunless ashen land;  
his lance was shattered, when it met  
armour through which no blade could get. _

Weep, all ye stars, in tears of light,  
mourn the king, in glory so bright  
that none can outshine Gil-Galad  
the day he rode to Dagorlad. 

- Arwen Imladviel 2004 

**Part Eight: A Hidden Lamp**

'Victory!' The young soldiers shout. But tears are streaming from their eyes.  
'We had only just buried Anarion…' Says one of the elves.  
Glorfindel, is that him, that limping man whose hair is matted with dried blood all over? It must be him, for Celeborn cut his hair as a sign of his sorrow.

But Celeborn did not shave himself bald, like another, the one who mourns the most. More than Elrond mourns his lord, more than Isildur his father. 

Pengil took off every single piece of armour, broke his bow in two, burned his last arrows, wept for hours wailing aloud, tore his hair off in chunks and told one of the mortals to cut off what remained with his shaving knife. Pengil's knees have been bruised by stones, for he has spent the night on the burial mound. 

Gil-Galad's grave, and Elendil's too, but Gil-Galad is the one she mourns. Elrond brings food to her now and then, but she refuses even water. Elrond serves her like he used to serve his master, or he would serve if Pengil accepted any service. Isildur often stands near the grave, but he does not kneel, nor weep. Pengil seems to sense his presence and it makes her restless. If anything can make her more restless than she has been since the moment she saw Gil-Galad die. 

Later she journeys with the elves to the land of Lothlórien. She wants to die. She truly wants to die. Few of the Maiar have ever wanted to die, but this one, this nameless one - for she answer to none of the names she is addressed with - she wants to cease to exist. Fade away like smoke in the air, lose herself and her memories. Her eternity. 

Celeborn leads her on as if she were blind. The nameless Maia, clad in the linen garments she wore under her armour and Elrond's cloak on her shoulders, walks as if possessed by a dream, although sleep escapes her every night. Instead she is haunted by memories worse than nightmares, and guilt. 

For to his last battle Ereinion Gil-Galad rode with Elai's name as the battle cry on his lips, sworn to defeat the enemy and thus free his loved one from the bondage of Sauron's curse. 

The chain, a fragile-looking cord with a black stone, is still around her neck. She saw Sauron fall, but his spirit lives still, somewhere. Only when Sauron truly dies the binding power of the chain shall disappear. 

She wants to die. Nothing binds the dead. But first she must say goodbye to her friend. Galadriel Lauremiriel. 

Of course Galadriel will not let her die. She takes care of her friend as if she were a child, and from her lips Tinwen hears a name friendship demands her to accept: El-Carnil. From her hands El-Carnil takes lembas and fresh water. In her blessed realm, named after the realm of dreams beyond the Sea, El-Carnil sleeps. 

After five years words return to her mouth. 

Galadriel takes her to her mirror. 

Tinwen sees herself, and knows herself not. She sees a nameless Maia with short fuzzy hair. Every single hair is silver-grey. There is sorrow and guilt on the face of the woman. The image ripples and changes. 

She sees Pengil in the heat of battle. She sees Elai with diamonds in her hair. She sees Maialaurë climbing a tree. She sees El-Carnil running through the storm, across the breaking land. She sees Cal-Urúnya beside Sauron, her hair blazing aflame. She sees Híniel, a red-haired wild child. Then the mirror displays the face of Galadriel, and Tinwen recalls it once was her face as well, that face as well. Seven faces and seven names she sees, and then she cries out in despair. 

A strange face, the face of a dark-haired woman looks at her. An elf, or a mortal, but fairer than any other. Fairer than any of Tinwen's shapes. And she wears around her neck a chain of large jewels, and on it shines a star, bright as Eärendil. 

No, it is the same light. Tinwen knows the legends. Here is the Silmaril, attached to the Nauglamir, on the neck of Lúthien Tinuviel. Melian's features can be discerned in the lovely, enchanting face of her daughter. 

A golden mallorn-leaf floats down and falls on the surface of the mirror, breaking its stillness. Soon the mirror once again reflects only the silver-haired Maia, who has been given back all her names. 

'Alatariel! Did you see? Did you see her?'  
'I did. Lúthien. It really was her. But I had to turn my face away, for I could not bear her brightness. You are of stronger make.'  
'I have faced Morgoth eye to eye. Why should I fear a woman whose heart is pure?'  
'She is pure, like metal purified in fire. Only a spirit such as you can touch white-hot gold!'  
'Speak not of blazing gold! I cannot help but remember Isildur and that accursed ring!'   
'Then let us speak of Lúthien the Fair. Why did you see her? What was she doing?'  
'She only looked straight at me. And she smiled. Her beauty I do not envy, but I wish I could someday smile with all my heart.'  
'Maybe you will. Maybe this was an omen. Lúthien freed Beren from the chains of Sauron, maybe you too shall one day be freed! And maybe, just like Lúthien, you will marry and have children… when your mourning is over.'  
'No. Never. No man shall ever again be put to peril because of me! I shall not take a beautiful shape, I shall not seduce a man, be he elf or mortal. And I shall mourn Gil-Galad for two thousand years!'  
'Then mourn, El-Carnil, and sing lamentations! Stay in this land or wander far away, and hold in memory and honour the name you love! Let all Middle-Earth sing with you of his glory.' 

After some years Tinwen took the road once again. And the shape she wore was that of a mortal woman, bent by the weight of years and grey in her hair. In this shape she came to the court of Osgiliath, and she was employed as a nanny for the royal family. The small children called her Wen-Wen, and she served three kings, astonishing the court with her longevity. Many suspected that the noble blood of Numenor was stronger in her than in the common people in general. Long after she was gone the nannies and nursemaids in Gondorian noble families were called Wen-Wen. 

She was gone, for she had the thought to learn more of Aul's people, the dwarves. Those days Durin the Sixth was lord of Khazad-Dûm. Tinwen arrived at the western gate in the shape of a dwarf-woman, carrying only a basket of wild berries. The gate was open and the guardsmen assumed she had gone out before the change of guard and was now returning home, although they did not know her. She wandered in the corridors until she came to the heart of the realm. There she sat on a bench under a lantern and offered berries to all children that went past her, but spoke not a word. When she was still there late in the night, a friendly family offered her a place to stay. Later they learned that nobody knew the grey-haired mute woman. Slowly she learned the dwarven tongue, but spoke little and revealed nothing of her past. People assumed she had lost her memory, but out of politeness nobody asked her direct questions. 

Her public name was Dari. She had skilled hands and was given the honour to be a servant in the royal kitchens. One day the king himself, a widower and of high age, asked whether Dari was married. The woman replied: 

'I am not, milord, but I have given an oath not to marry any man but he who breaks this chain that binds my neck.' She showed him the black stone on a thin golden chord. The king was already smitten by Dari, and tried to break the chain with his hands right away. Later he tried with all possible tools, but failed. So did the many smiths who tried. Finally Dari asked to be taught smithcraft herself. The king allowed this, but the chain endured Dari's attempts as well. 

Years went by, and the Balrog woke and killed the king. The warriors retreated and saw Dari standing alone, defending Durin's corpse. She took the king's axe and struck the monster. Its flames seemed not to burn her, but neither was it much harmed by her blows. The Balrog threw her against a wall, but she stood up and attacked once more.   
'It is not too late, my brother, to return to the path of true light!'  
Dari raised her left hand and behold! On her finger shone a golden star. Suddenly she seemed to glow, her hair was like white fire, her clothes like thin clouds through which the sun is shining. Only a black shadow on her neck was untouched by the brilliance. The dwarves knew the star on her finger: it was Glorharn, the goldstone, mightiest of the Seven Rings. Durin had had it, and Dari had not touched his dead body, so the king must have handed it to her while he still lived - probably to keep it safe. 

The Balrog attacked her and the dwarves ran away. Only one, Náin son of Durin, remained near. When the sounds of battle ceased he went to look. It seemed the Balrog had slain Dari and stolen Durin's corpse. Náin lifted up Dari's body and carried her to where their people was hiding secret and safe.  
Dari, however, woke from her deathlike sleep, when Náin was taking the ring from her finger. The woman simply said:  
'Keep it. I am sorry.' And she walked away limping and was not seen again, but the dwarves still remember a woman called Dari. Bearer of Glorharn. Bride of Durin. 

From fallen Moria Tinwen returned to Lothlórien. She looked into Galadriel's mirror and saw herself, eight name this time, and the mortal Wen-Wen whose name means "woman-woman". And another mortal she saw, Lúthien, the beautiful Nightingale with the Silmaril on her neck. In this image she carried a child in her womb, Dior who was to became Thingol's heir, Eärwen's father, her who flew with the wings of an albatross to Eärendil. 

This Tinwen understood, her own fate she did not see, but Galadriel told her: 

'Your two thousand years are almost over, and the time will come when I may see a child in your arms and embrace it.'  
'Something I did learn in the halls of the dwarves: there are more than one ways to make a chain, and even more ways to break it. I have sworn that I shall not send anyone to face Sauron, but maybe a craftsman may be found with power in his hands mightier than that of the dark lord. Maybe someone will come and set me free.'  
'Maybe. Will you have him?'  
'If he will have me. For this I did swear to Durin king: no other shall I have as my husband but the one who breaks my chain. My oath I shall keep, for the last morning of his life he put in my hand his most precious treasure.'  
'What do you mean?'v 'The star of water on your finger, Lauremiriel! The stone of gold on my finger, for a moment only, a moment I will never forget.'  
Galadriel looked at her very closely.  
'Keep the secret. And beware! Only three are bright, that Sauron has not touched. The Seven, the Nine, and the One are unclean.'  
'I will remember. I think it is time for me to travel to Imladris. How is Elrond?'  
'He married my daughter, and they have two sons and a daughter, Arwen Undomiel. And when Arwen looks into my mirror, only a tiny ripple of the water is needed to make her face the face of Lúthien.'  
'I can well believe that, for in her there is the blood of the Nightingale and the light of Lórien. I will take you greeting to Celebrian and her family.' 

Tinwen spent a long time in Rivendell. There were some who knew her, such as Elrond, Celebrian, and Glorfindel. They called her Elai, but others knew her only by nicknames such as Elf-friend and Silverhead, that is, Celebdil. She spent her days reading and copying old texts. If she was asked to sing, she sang the only song she had ever composed, the Lament of Gil-Galad. Those days the song was well known. 

Elrond's sons, Elladan and Elrohir, found a new name for her when they saw her braiding feathers to decorate her long grey hair. Hawkfeather. And when she heard that name she smiled, not as fair as Lúthien, but with all her heart, this old woman wearing a loose robe and playing with her hair like a child. 

Two thousand years had passed since the death of Gil-Galad. The mourning was over. 


	9. The Wind Blows the Smoke Westwards

**Part Nine: The Wind Blows the Smoke Westwards**

Years pass swiftly for those who live through many ages. Of the news of the wide world Tinwen was most interested in matters somehow connected to Sauron. The Gondorian royal line ended and she mourned, remembering the children in her lap. Celebrian was wounded and went to the West. The tribe of Durin lost Mount Erebor to a dragon. The fair town of Dale, which Tinwen also had visited, was destroyed. With it the knowledge that Mirkwood had once been called Greenwood the Great was lost from mortal memory. The world was full of enemies and wars. Heroes also, heroes of battle. 

A time came when Tinwen decided to go to the Grey Havens. She had not looked towards the sea since Eönwë had left Middle-Earth, and she felt it was time, before she forgot what sunset over the shoreless waters looked like. 

The Great West Road went through the forsaken land of Arnor, and even more forsaken was the green-covered southern road when she looked at it near the small village at the crossroads. Soon after that village there was a bridge over the river Baranduin, and a strange land opened before Tinwen after that bridge. The people of this land were halflings, short like dwarves but beardless and lithe. They walked barefoot and smoked pipes. Tinwen changed her shape to resemble them, a grey-haired, sun-browned hobbit woman, for she wished to learn more of this unique people. They seemed to possess characteristics of all other free peoples: they were hardworking like dwarves, loved the sun and fertile land like humans, they were merry like elves, and they could hide in woodland as skilfully as the Ents. Most Tinwen loved their delicious ale and the stories told beside the pints. 

The hobbits had some reservations in regard of this stranger woman, but they accepted her among them because she assumed most of their habits and never put herself forward. She moved about in different parts of the Shire until she happened to see an attractive little burrow for sale. She paid for it in foreign silver, and when the seller, one Mr Sackville, saw her money, he said:  
'Bagshot Row Seven seems a suitable address for you, Miss Hawkfeather!'  
'How so?' Asked Tinwen, who used the Westron version of her latest name.  
'You are not the first one to bring elven silver to Hobbiton Hill! Up there, in Bag End, I'm sure you know the place, happens to live one Bilbo Baggins - don't tell me you haven't heard of him!'  
'I have heard, good things and bad things, and weird things most of all. He has travelled with dwarves and robbed a treasure from a dragon, hasn't he?'  
'I don't care if he had robbed a treasure from dwarves with a dragon, it ain't many that ever get to see that silver of his. You must be different. And you are very sensible to be satisfied with this small burrow instead of trying to dwell a place the size of Bag End all by yourself.'  
'Mister Sackville, I don't have that many coins left. They call me a vagabond, so I thought to settle down. What my neighbours do is none of my business, but this much I will tell you: You should not say anything nasty about dwarves or their friends to me. You see, ' Tinwen lowered her voice into a whisper;  
'I was once engaged to a dwarf!' And she laughed out loud and poor Mr Sackville had no idea whether she was joking or not. It caused a good rumour to be told, of course, and something else as well; Bilbo Baggins decided to meet his newest neighbour. 

Tinwen Hawkfeather opened the door wearing an apron round her waist. She saw Bilbo for the first time and was surprised by his youthful appearance.  
'Good day, how may I help you?'  
'Well, um, I'm your neighbour. Bilbo Baggins is my name.'  
'How nice to meet you. Do come in, please.'  
'Thank you, Miss Hawkfeather. Your name is rather special, by the way.'  
'Call me Tinwen. Would you like some tea? I have no cake or anything, but I did bake bread this morning.'  
Bilbo took a basket from behind his back.  
'I, um, brought you some cake. I made it myself. It is, um, cinnamon and ginger cake.  
'Oh, thank you, master Baggins.'  
'Call me Bilbo.'  
'But that won't do, I mean, you are, how should I say it, better folk.'  
'Not for you, Miss Tinwen, there is no folk better than you.'  
'What do you mean? You hardly know me.'  
'I know your reputation. You sit the evenings in the Green Dragon with the men, telling stories from faraway lands. You sing in elven tongues. You ask the dwarves for news like an old friend, and wish them farewell in their own language. You are exactly the sort of folk that is needed in this land.' 

Beside a cup of tea Bilbo lost the last of his shyness, and he soon found himself telling his story to Tinwen without leaving out a single detail, save one; the Ring he did not mention. They sat together late into the night, and many nights after that, in the hall of Bag End or in Tinwen's small living room. Tinwen listened, telling hardly anything of herself, judged Bilbo's poetry with the voice of an expert, and recounted old legends. Miss Hawkfeather admitted she had been to Rivendell and told even something of Durin, although not his position or the way of his death. 

All over the Hobbiton village rumours were about, of course, that old Bilbo had fallen in love. If he had, his new friend never noticed it. Or was there a strange fervour in Bilbo's poems, mysterious dream-images of a woman, fair as an elf, with shining flame-red hair? Nothing could hardly be further away from the old maid Tinwen, who bound her grey hair in a loose bun and often rested her feet on a table, Tinwen, whose only fire was the spark in her pipe, which habit she had learned in her old days. 

At some point a third person entered the friendship: a small boy quietly listening to his uncle's stories. The child was called Frodo. Tinwen loved the boy like a favourite auntie, especially after he was orphaned and Bilbo adopted him. Sometimes the kid was a real bother; in a few years Tinwen learned to always reserve part of the fruits of her garden for Frodo and the other mischievous boys to rob. They were always caught, it seemed that Miss Hawkfeather counted the fruits every morning and evening. She never punished the boys physically; instead, she wrote official-looking bills and presented them to Bilbo with Frodo listening.   
'Master Baggins,' she might say, 'I see your young protégé has taken half a basketload of white apples from my garden. The price of the day is three and a half pennies, but I ask for four, for the transaction also contained a halfpenny's worth of my best brambleberries.' The fruit was paid for, and Frodo was given stern words and extra chores. Then Tinwen changed her tone of voice, sat down in an armchair in a relaxed way, and asked:  
'Bilbo, how is your translation proceeding? Have you solved the problem of the fourth stanza yet?' While speaking the little old lady lighted her pipe and added wood into the fireplace. And Bilbo took out his notes and started working out the difficulty of finding rhymes for the fourth stanza of _'The Fall of Gil-Galad'_. Tinwen listened, offered a simple but uncommon translation, and sent Frodo into the kitchen - for apples to be roasted in the fireplace. 

One afternoon Tinwen was surprised to meet an old friend. She sat beside a glass of wine in the Green Dragon, watching people coming and going through the door. A grey-bearded, bent old man stepped in. Tinwen rose and helped the visitor by carrying his pint of beer into her table, for the man's hands were full - one held a long wooden staff and another his tall pointed hat he had taken off because the ceiling was so low for him. When they sat down she whispered:  
'Gandalf - that is your name these days, is it not?'  
'Gandalf, yes. But I am also still Olórin. But who are you these days? You certainly have not grown since I last saw you!'  
'I am Tinwen Hawkfeather, former vagabond, now a cracked spinster.'  
'Cracked? How so?'  
'So they say, because I listen to Bilbo's stories about dragons and elves, and supposedly also encourage poor young Frodo to believe in fairy-tales.'  
'Well. In that case, I am old Gandalf the magician, an incurable vagabond and extremely cracked!'  
'Truly. Is it true that Gwaihir once rescued you from the top of a tree?'  
'Yes. But how did you end up in the Shire?'  
'I was on my way to the Havens, and I still am. Who knows, maybe one day I will actually get there. I haven't been in a hurry to get anywhere for ages. At the moment I live at Bagshot Row Seven. Near to Bilbo.'  
They ordered some beer. Gandalf asked:  
'On your way to the Havens? Is - are you finally free to sail West?'  
Tinwen showed the chain on her neck.  
'No.' He looked into the eyes of the old wizard.  
'Olórin - couldn't you set me free? There is hidden power and red fire in you.'  
'What are you talking about? My power is not enough, even Saruman could not do it. But what do you know of the fire?'  
'I don't care for Saruman! Well, ask anyone here and you'll hear three rumours of me. The first one claims I've got my eye on a certain wealthy bachelor. That is a lie. Another says there is something shameful in my past - but those who tell it have not an inkling of the truth. The third rumour is that I have been engaged to a dwarf. It is true. And I once wore Durin's ring. Glorharn.'  
'Tinwen. All things considered it might be best for you to depart from the Shire. Your chain binds you to Sauron. He knows where you are. Your presence may bring a curse to this land and put your friends in danger. Say farewell to Bilbo while you still can leave without breaking his heart.'  
'Something is happening, right?'  
'Perhaps. Go to the Havens, go to the wilderness, go to the elves. Your enemy is growing stronger all the time. When war breaks over all the land, take arms and revenge all your loved ones. Durin. Gil-Galad. The Entwives. Celebrian's broken heart. The royal house of Gondor.'  
'I will do as you say, Gandalf.'  
And only a week from that day she wished farewell to Bilbo and Frodo Baggins. 

Tinwen stayed for a while in the Havens, thinking about her future, gazing westwards, listening to the gulls. Then she travelled once again to Lórien. And once again the mirror showed her herself. Nine names, nine faces, last of all the halfling Miss Hawkfeather. But Lúthien she did not see anymore. Instead she saw a familiar face, although uncommonly serious and pale. 

'Bilbo! But he is younger, only thirty perhaps. And what is that black land. I have seen those mountains. Morgai, the land of Mordor, Orodruin… what is he doing there? At that age Bilbo lived in his father's house. He looks at me… no it isn't him. The eyes are too dark. Frodo! This must not happen! Why? I left them so that they would not be put in peril, but here he walks in the shadow of Barad-Dûr… and despair dwells in his heart. What does this mean, Galadriel?'  
'I do not know. I know nothing of these halflings. Time will tell, perhaps. But I think you have no part in that time. A mere coincidence led you to know them.'  
'If there is such a thing as coincidence. I think Mandos has decreed this so.' 

* * *

'Sing to me, Galadriel! Maybe I too shall sing… 

_Years like rushing waters stream away bearing golden leaves…' _

'…long years numberless as the wings of trees! The years have passed like swift draughts of the sweet mead in lofty halls beyond the West…'* 

'Time is a rapids like the fury of Rauros, ice-cold like the despair of Nimrodel!  
The wilderness swallows me and drinks me dry, I cannot reach the Sea…' 

'But if of ships I now should sing, what ship would come to me,  
What ship would bear me ever back across so wide a Sea?'* 

* * *

In the storms of the war Lórien is a haven, also for eight walkers on their secret journey. None of them knows the silver-haired elf-woman in Galadriel's court above the trees. Her name is El-Carnil. When Gandalf arrives only a day later he recognises her and gets her involved into planning the defence of the realm of the Galadhrim. The war in its full rage will not leave any land untouched. When the attack comes, the bows are ready, the hunting-horns play a call to battle. Lórien endures. And finally Sauron falls. The chain round the neck of a warrior falls to pieces. A black stone crumbles into dust. Beside Celeborn and Galadriel El-Carnil marches to destroy Dol Guldur. 

Tinwen is free, at last she is free. 

She travels West and crosses the ocean in spirit form, lands on the island of Eresseä and finds peace. Eönwë greets her there, but she remembers all the oaths she has sworn;  
'You did not set me free. We are not one and we do not belong together. I shall not return to the Immortal Lands. On this islands the notes of my heart are sung. Here are the graves of the Teleri who fell in the Kinslaying. This is a world between worlds, here I will stay.' 

And the story could end here. Maybe it would be more beautiful if it ended here, in sorrowful elven songs on the Lonely Isle. But Tinwen asks me to write one last chapter. 

* * *

*Galadriel's songs are from 'The Lord of the Rings'. 


	10. A Warm Home for the Winter

**Part Ten: A Warm Home for the Winter**

My story is nearing its end. Only a last, humble part of it remains. My part. For I gave Tinwen her tenth name. 

Sunset on the Island of Eresseä is a beautiful sight. I had acquired the habit of viewing it on the western shore, where I could behold Arien in her full glory settling beyond the Blessed Lands. On that shore I met Tinwen. Her shape was astounding; in her being could be read all the joys and sorrows of her past. Her hair was curly and grey like silver filigree. Greyed in sorrow, but still just as lively and untamed as the hair of Miss Tinwen from Bagshot Row Seven. Her shape was noble and straight-backed, like the prisoner of Angamando walking to freedom, adorable as Lady Elai of the elven court. She wore a silver-shining garment like El-Carnil of Lothlórien, a garment of simple design such as the robes of Wen-Wen the servant. Her feet were bare and dirty, like the feet of little Híniel so long ago. From her green eyes shone the ancient sap of Fangorn but also Pengil's flaming courage. Her face was young like the young soul-sister of Alátariel, yet as rich in experience as that of the grey-headed Elf-Friend of Rivendell, and there was something sharp and carved in her features also, a trace of Dari the dwarf. None of her past shapes could I recognise, although they were all thus displayed to me, and I knew not her name, none of them. 

But I turned my face from the Sun to the woman looking at it, and I greeted her politely in the elven tongue. She smiled at me.  
'I was expecting you.'  
'You were expecting me? I am sorry, but I do not know you, my lady.'  
'I know you. Better than you can guess. I apologise for having confused you. Perhaps you know me better - now.'  
She took the shape I had first seen her in. I gasped in astonishment, for she was exactly as I remembered her. Time seemed not to have touched her. I spoke her name, and again she smiled, a wise smile that seemed not to belong to that familiar face.  
'Yes, that was my name. That is my name.'  
'But how - I mean, you looked different at first. And I thought you would be dead by now. You have not aged a day!'  
'I have many names. Nine in all. Tinwen Híniel Cal-Urúnya Maialaurë El-Carnil Elai Pengil Dari Hawkfeather. Tinwen I have always been, a spark from the same fire as Arien my sister. Híniel I was in the dawn of my innocence on the Isle of Almaren. Cal-Urúnya was betrayed by Sauron and suffered in captivity. Maialaurë was the name I called myself among the Ents, who keep their true names secret. Dwarven names are secret too, and they called me Dari. El-Carnil, the star of fate, loved Galadriel as her sister. Ereinion Gil-Galad loved the name of Elai, but Pengil was the one who rode with him to the war the Last Alliance. And Hawkfeather I was called in Rivendell and in the Shire.'  
'Elrond has mentioned you. But I had no idea… that it was you. And that you are a sister to Arien. A Maia. Of course you are not dead… why did you keep it all a secret?'  
'Most of my memories are painful.'  
I thought about her words for a while. 

'How did you know to expect me?'  
'I had hope. When my chain was broken, I was told who had set me free. I did not go to Aman but remained on the mortal earth of Eresseä. I wished I would meet you here when the time comes.'  
'What time?'  
'It has to do with oaths I have spoken. I bound myself to Sauron with my own words, and he put round my neck an enchanted chain. It prevented me from leaving Middle-Earth and from speaking the promises of marriage. Eönwë, who defeated Morgoth, was the first one I demanded to slay Sauron. But that was not in his power after Sauron begged for mercy. Later I asked the same of Gil-Galad, thus partly causing his death. In my mourning I swore I would never again send a man to that hopeless mission. Among the dwarves I announced, however, that if a smith with his tools could break the chain I would marry him. Not even king Durin, sixth of that name, could do it. Much later I met Gandalf and he refused even to try. Instead he advised me to leave the Shire. That was indeed wise, for if my chain had been involved in the War of the Ring the results might have been horrible. Finally, in the days when I fought to defend Lórien, my chain crumbled and I was able to cross the ocean.'  
'You mean…'  
'Frodo. Yes.' 

I looked at her. It was difficult to believe what I had heard, but Tinwen was obviously serious. It seemed not to be a strange idea to her at all that she, a Maia, older than the world, would marry an ordinary halfling - not to mention such a tired, prematurely aged halfling as Frodo Baggins, on whose shoulders the past still was a heavy burden. 

She sensed my feelings. There before my eyes she changed her shape, only a bit, but it was enough. In front of me now stood a beautiful hobbit maiden, with greyish-brown hair and a pretty green dress that matched the colour of her eyes. If Tinwen Hawkfeather had been an ordinary hobbit she might have looked like this when she was young. A girl like this Frodo Baggins might indeed fall in love with - if he could fall in love with anyone at all. 

For there are shadows that are not banished even by the sight of sunset over Aman. 

Tinwen looked into my eyes.  
'I have no right to make any demands. My oaths make it my duty to inform you of what is possible.'  
'I thought as much; I guess this has nothing to do with your feelings.' I attempted a smile.  
'No? For millennia I have wrapped all my feelings around the hatred I felt for Sauron and his spell. But I am no hero-worshipping silly little maiden. I once knew a really nice family. I told stories to a little hobbit child. Later I saw his face in the Mirror of Galadriel. The previous times I looked into it that mirror had shown me Lúthien Tinúviel, Lúthien wearing the Silmaril, Lúthien with a child in her womb. My path was marked for me. And I would have loved you even if you had failed in your task.'  
'Oh, Tinwen.' Tears filled my eyes. 

'I did fail. At the last moment temptation overcame me and I declared the Master Ring as mine. Only Fate saved us all.'  
She embraced me fiercely. I could barely discern her whispered words:  
'My love. I have failed a thousand times. Will you have me?' 

Of course I would have her. I desired her, for she was beautiful, beautiful all the way through her heart. 

Tol Eresseä celebrated a wedding. Bilbo gave a speech in our honour, and stammered more than usual. 

I took up the task of writing down Tinwen's story, these pages you have read, the story of ten names and an everlasting spark. Before I finish, I have one more thing to tell. You must be as surprised as I was when I realised Tinwen's tenth name would be Baggins. But that is not all. Galadriel's prophecy came true and she could hold the child of her friend in her arms. Our daughter. The youngest inhabitant of Eresseä. Her name is Niphredil, in honour of Lúthien and in memory of Lothlórien. She is pale as the moon, beautiful as a star, and she has wonderfully wise green eyes and thick black curls. And as I write this she has just learned to climb an apple tree… 


End file.
